The morning sun spilled gently through the sheer curtains of their shared Tokyo home, casting soft golden light across the polished wood floors. The city outside was alive, but not in a way that needed them. No calls, no crises. Just the quiet murmur of life going on without their capes. It was a rarity—one of those elusive joint days off where nothing loomed. No patrol routes. No agency reports. No interviews or commissions. Just the two of them, in the same space, at the same time, with nowhere to be. Tenya Iida was already awake, of course. He’d been up since 7:03 a.m. sharp—ten minutes past his usual wake-up time, because Shoto had been wrapped around him like a second blanket, and for once, Iida allowed himself to linger. Now, he stood in front of their kitchen shelf, in house slippers and a crisp navy-blue hoodie, reorganizing the spice rack with intense concentration. “Why,” he muttered under his breath, “is the turmeric between the matcha and the nutmeg? This is culinary anarchy.” Behind him, Shoto shuffled into the kitchen, his hair tousled from sleep, a pale blue mug cradled in his hands. One half of his bangs was sticking up, and he made no effort to fix it. He moved quietly—not out of caution, but out of nature, as if he were still half dreaming. “You know I don’t see spices,” Shoto said simply, voice still scratchy from sleep. “You do see them,” Iida replied, not turning around. “You just have no system. This is a domestic hazard.” Shoto took a sip of tea, then leaned against the counter beside him. “Didn’t realize cinnamon in the wrong spot was dangerous.” “To peace of mind,” Iida corrected, and finally turned to face him. Shoto gave him that lazy, lopsided smirk that never quite reached both sides of his mouth, but always melted Iida’s righteous scolding into fond exasperation. “Mm. Tragic,” Shoto murmured, and reached out to tug gently at the hem of Iida’s hoodie. “Come back to bed.” “Bed?” Iida blinked. “It’s practically midmorning—” “It’s 8:24.” “Exactly—” “You reorganized the tea shelf yesterday. You’re just looking for something to manage.” “I am not—” Iida stopped, realizing he was holding both cumin and paprika like they were state secrets. “...Perhaps I am.” Shoto raised an eyebrow in triumph and turned, gliding back toward the bedroom with that strange, effortless grace he carried even in boxers and a worn All Might T-shirt. Iida stood there for a beat, staring down at the spices. And then, with a sigh and a soft smile, he put them back—improperly, even—and followed.